The Phantom's Gift
by Legwarmer
Summary: After the Opéra burns down, Christine is brought to the madhouse because she is said to make up a genius, fearsome man named Erik. But she truly believes he existed. On a painful voyage to the truth, Christine has to fight madness.


A/N: This is my first fanfic to have an end already, so the updates will be 'fast'. At least there shouldn't be any writer's block. Thanks to Incapability for beta-reading. You may review and say anything you like – I am not the type of writer to delete the reviews I don't feel comfortable with. If you don't like the story at all, though, please go read another one. I do not want thousands of flames by one and the same reader – unless my story truly sucks. Heheh.

Summary: After the Opéra burns down, Christine is brought to the madhouse because she is said to make up a genius, fearsome man named Erik. But she truly believes he existed. On a painful voyage to the truth, Christine has to fight madness.

Disclaimer: It all doesn't belong to me (except for the plot…), so please don't sue me.

The Phantom's Gift

I

Madame Giry stood by an open window and stared outside, where there was nothing to look at but two moveless trees. Their colour was just as brown as any other tree, their leaves just as green, and nothing special made them worth looking at. But still, her eyes did not leave them for a moment.

Her hands held a bottle of red wine, cheap wine – wine to help forget what had happened, or help her thoughts move from that one spot they hadn't left for hours. The wine didn't help either way, but she had reached a point at which she didn't care anymore. There was no longer a getting forth or back… the world stood still, and she was merely drowning her sorrow in bitter alcohol.

Raoul stepped to her side. At first, he followed her gaze to the trees, but then he consolingly touched her shoulder in a way that would be considered inappropriate – in other times. Madame did not mind, for the situation would have allowed anything. Especially the place – a madhouse right in the middle of Paris.

"Madame. Please don't." He reached for the bottle, but Madame let go of it before he had a change to take it. It fell to the floor and the glass broke, a puddle of red fluid graced the floor. She stared at it indifferently, then her eyes set back on the trees.

"Madame."

"What?" Her voice was silent and somehow broken, her lips barely moved while forming that one word. After several seconds, she uttered, "How is any of this going to end?"

"I do not know," he admitted. She didn't respond but nodded, pulling her shoulders up. "Exactly. What kind of help are you, then?"

"Madame."

"Go, Raoul."

"You cannot stand here forever. You have done so for the past couple of hours, and it is unbearable to watch you stare outside."

"Then leave."

"I cannot…," he breathed in, "…leave Christine. Not now. She needs us. Both of us. Come back to her bed, Madame. I beg you." Raoul's face tightened as he said this, and he hoped Madame would listen.

"Fine." Madame turned around. She slowly walked over to Christine's bed and sat down on a chair Raoul had brought there. She folded her hands on her lap and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Christine was still sleeping, but that was because of all the drugs she had been given. After hours of screaming and tears, the doctors had decided to bring it to an end for that day. What the next might bring nobody knew.

"You know, Raoul, somehow I knew one of us would end up like this. It's our job that kills us in the end. It's driving us crazy."

"Don't say that," Raoul said and kneeled down beside her, "you know this is untrue. It is nobody's fault. The doctor said this could have happened to anybody."

"I'm telling you… she loved the Opéra so much, she can't bear its loss. She had to make _him_ up to blame … blame … somebody but herself. She would blame herself, she would always do that… and after it burned down, she can no longer blame herself. This is too much for one person to bear."

"And so she… made him up?"

"Don't be a fool, Raoul. Of course she did. Everything else is out of the question. I severely hope you don't believe her story to be true." She looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, please, do not be ridiculous," she snarled at him, "or you'll be the next one in this madhouse."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "I cannot believe she could ever lie… she is such an honest and upright person."

"I know," Madame said and suddenly, she sounded despaired. "I know. But there was, is and never will be a man called 'Erik' – or even worse, 'The Phantom'. It is insane, she is simply going mad. She never had a romance with this man, he is not a genius, and there is nobody living under the Opéra. We all know this."

"Yes. We do. But why doesn't she?"

"I told you," Madame said impatiently, her voice rasping. She left the room to get more wine, for her crestfallen eyes should never be seen by anybody, so she had better cover them by a veil of drunkness.


End file.
